You Thought Wrong
by Texmex007
Summary: It's been three years after the fall, and yet he hasn't come back. John knew he was alive, he could feel it in his bones. But why hasn't he come back? Broken, and desperate, John believes he has found the ultimate way to lure Sherlock back into Existence, even if it will cost others theirs. Johnlock. Rating will be T but may go up due to graphics of murder.
1. Chapter 1: But you are

You Thought Wrong

By: Texmex007

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's Sherlock.

A.N: Saw a small paragraph that talked about something like this on tumblr. Fell in madly in love. I simply had to write it because I could not find it to read. Enjoy.

Life. What was life when everything real, everything precious no longer existed?

_When it jumped off a building and slammed against the cold pavement, splattering brain matter and blood in front of you?_

John Watson shook his head with a thoughtful smile as he opened the door to the outside London air with a gloved hand, leading a beautiful young lady out of a local pub, supporting her as she swerved left and right. He couldn't remember her name, which was fine-he really wasn't trying to because in all honesty, it's not like it mattered.

_I think 'Number Seven' seems to fit you just fine._

"I don't normally let gents take me home," giggled the intoxicated blonde, "but you're really cute and," she hiccupped, tracing a heart on his beige jumper where his used to be with her polished finger, "there's a first time for everything."

_And a last._

"Well, we're almost to my car," laughed John as they walked towards an empty alleyway, "let's take this shortcut and then I can tell you all about my time in the war, wouldn't you like that?"

"Would I?" she perked up and laid her head on his shoulder, "that'd be fantastic."

John threw one last glance behind his shoulder as they entered the shadows of the alleyway, no one following. No one around-not one soul.

_No one to hear you scream._

"Hey John," asked the blonde as they reached halfway through the alleyway, "you're..The John Watson, yeah? The bloke who was with that fraud-what was his name? Sheldon?"

John's jaw clenched and a certain boiling sensation of pure wrath eradicated whatever sanity he had managed to maintain that evening as she spoke.

"Sherlock," corrected John in a deadly calm, "his name is Sherlock."

"Was, his name _was_ 'Sherlock', right? He killed himself didn't he?" she continued, "must've been the guilt."

His eye twitched ever so slightly as she shrugged her shoulders in indifference. Funny how easy it is for a stranger to judge someone they don't know. Easy because she didn't spend the past couple of years with the most important person in her life like he had. She didn't miss those eyes that seemed to hold all the secrets of the galaxies in the entire bloody universe and the elusive smile that he had only really shown to John. She didn't have to miss admiring the sound of a bow slide skillfully along the strings of a violin in the early hours of the morning or in the late evenings, filling the entire flat with its masterful symphonies.

Oh. So very funny.

_ He's not dead. Sherlock is alive. He's still alive, HE IS STILL ALIVE. He's NOT DEAD-_

With lightning speed and precision he took her pretty face in his hands and twisted it, his eyes unnaturally wide and a grin plastered to his face as he watched her body go limp like a chicken and slump to the cluttered floor.

"But you are."

He picked her up bridal style and threw her into the dumpster without blinking an eye and picked up the contents that had spilt out of her purse, tossing them into the garbage along with her now oddly contorted body. He walked the short distance to the street and hailed a cab.

"Where to sir?" asked the cabbie.

"Baker Street," answered John nonchalantly. The cabbie nodded and sped off into the night traffic. After half an hour John handed the driver his change and stepped out of the cab, his eyes boring into the golden numbers and letter that made the ebony door which lead to the time capsule in which he lived-the only place where he could still feel Sherlock's presence.

"221B."

After a moment's pause, he retrieved his keys and opened the door, ready to face Mrs. Hudson's bombardment of questions that rained upon him almost every night he went out since …

_Since the fall._

Sure enough, there was Mrs. Hudson rushing to greet him from the sound of the door closing,

"Ello dear, how was your night? Have you eaten yet-I made meatloaf. I'd love it if you would have some." Said the landlady, her eyes twinkling in motherly fondness.

John felt like saying 'no, no I'm ok leave me alone' but knew better. He couldn't brush off her kindness-that would be rude of him. No, instead he smiled and replied "Why no Mrs. Hudson, I haven't eaten yet. Thank you so much for the offer-I'd very much love some meatloaf."

"I'm so glad you would!" she exclaimed as she hurried to the kitchen and opened the icebox. After a second of searching its contents she pulled out a pre-packed red and white tuberware containing meatloaf, mashed potatoes, two rolls and a generous helping of green beans. She placed the tuberware lovingly into John's hands and kissed him on the cheek,

"If there is anything you need, just let me know, dear."

"I will ," said John, holding the container in one hand and hugging the frail woman with his free arm, "and thank you."

He sat in the worn wooden chair at the table, the sounds of his chewing and swallowing the only noise made in the flat. That, and the never ending ticking of the clock on the wall.

_Tick._

_ Tock._

_ Tick._

_ Tock…_

It would only take a little more pushing to find him, granted if he were still alive. John winced as he mentally punched himself, "Time," he whispered, "it's only a matter of time."

_Tick._

_ Tock._

The clock struck midnight.

_Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong…_

"_And the Red Death held sway over all"_

_ Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong…_


	2. Chapter 2: Enough

You Thought Wrong

By: Texmex007

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's Sherlock.

A.N: Names used in this chapter (or story) are fictional, and if any names do exist then their use is strictly coincidental.

Curtains drawn, lights off, and eyes closed, Sherlock walked down the long corridors of his Mind Palace(although now he was seriously considering the idea of renaming it to 'Mind Prison') passing by each designated door that lead to either an already solved case, an event that has long since passed, places he hasn't been to in forever, and basic information in which he had acquired over the years which had its own organized files stored away somewhere in the endless maze of his beautiful Mind Palace. Lastly, there were the doors that held the people he hadn't seen in years.

It had been three long years from John.

Three.

Years.

From His John.

Just as his hand reached out to open the door- the door his mind told him not to but his heart screamed to open-Sherlock's eyes flung open, his hands still pressed tightly together under his chin in his usual stance as he perched on the hideous pea-green love seat that took up residence in his distasteful brother's living room, the sound of the doorknob rattling turning his attention from his thoughts. His body tensed up as he anticipated Mycroft's arrival, more like the newspaper that was bound to accompany him.

Sure enough, Mycroft walked through the door, one hand holding his precious umbrella and his brother's major connection to the outside world tucked under his arm as if it were just black words printed on white paper.

_It is so much more than that._

"I see that you're well-" drawled Mycroft as he flipped on the lights and placed his umbrella in its holder.

Sherlock sprang off the wretched sofa and plucked the paper before Mycroft could finish his sentence, automatically flipping to the 'Crime' section, his heart leaping as he read the newest article.

"Still obsessed with the new case about that Nightwalker serial killer aren't you?" remarked Mycroft snidely, rolling his eyes at his brother's behavior and plopping down into the sickly colored sofa. Sherlock ignored his brother with ease as he read the following:

**Thirty-two year old Leona Waters's body was found in a dumpster along with her purse and other personal belongs in the alleyway outside of the Chips&Drinks tavern last Friday on November 8, 2013 during a routine trash pickup. The autopsy report has determined that her neck had been broken, and there was no sign of rape. When asked if the perpetrator was the same person as all the other crimes that have taken place over the past four weeks, Scotland Yard's DI Gregory Lestrade has said that it "Do you mean to ask if we have a serial killer on our hands? If so, it isn't very likely because of the lack of consistency in victimology, weaponry and motive. Also, some of the previous murders have been solved. Don't forget that each victim was found in different locations in various places throughout the city. A serial killer usually sticks to a specific routine in which they kill their victims. Scotland Yard is fairly certain that we do not have a serial killer roaming our streets." Miss Leona Waters makes the body count seven in total. Her funeral will be held on the-**

He stopped reading and rushed over to the case files he had pilfered from Scotland Yard through his brother, his eyes scanning the crime scenes for the similarities and clues left behind each one.

"Case #1: Male. Brandon Thomas. Shot in head with a standard 9 mm, body found in his car parked at company's garage. Wedding ring removed, slight lipstick stain on collar of dress shirt, window rolled down halfway. Officials were able to apprehend and get a confession out of the mistress after two days of incarceration when the situation was investigated further."

"Case #2: Female. Mary Williams. She had been missing for two days before she was found in the woods that surround her jogging path at the local park as she was making her way home. She had been strangulated by rope, no sign of rape, and no physical evidence. The killer is still unknown.

_I don't know if I should curse or praise the invention of gloves._

"Case #3: Male. Elmo Richards. Was reported missing when he didn't show up for work and didn't answer phone calls from friends. Found drowned in his indoor swimming pool. Trace evidence of minute white fibers were found in his nose, suggested to be from his slightly damp white towel and when later autopsied on, there was no sign of a struggle, and water was present in his lungs. Tox screen showed no signs of drugs and was ruled as a suicide."

Sherlock's nose crinkled as he recalled researching on the supposed suicide-the victim apparently had a cheerful personality, played sports-

_Competitive people do not commit suicide, not really. Suicide would be quitting to them._

-and had just gotten engaged. It didn't make sense. Without actually visiting the house and observing the body he wouldn't be able to draw an actual deduction. Frustrated, he threw the case file at the wall.

"Case #4: Male. Benjamin Vance. Died of a multiple stab wounds to the thoracic and abdomen. Victim was also found with a bag of stolen merchandise behind the local police station. It was later confirmed that the victim was also an escaped robber of the local jewelry store. The killer is still unknown."

"He had it coming to him, that one did." Said Mycroft nonchalantly as he looked at the mess of papers Sherlock made. Sherlock snorted in response and continued reading.

"Case#5: Two Males. Henry Triston and Franklin Young. First victim was shot in the back of the head and chest with a 45. Caliber. Second victim was stabbed in chest and shot in between the eyes. Both suffered from broken ribs and internal bleeding from blunt force trauma caused by a metal pipe left at the crime scene. No fingerprints emerged when dusted. Both men were previously incarcerated for robbery and assault on an elderly couple and had just been released from a fifteen year sentence on parole. The killer is still unknown."

"Case #6: Female. Haley Georges. Victim went missing after leaving the local strip club. She was found on the side of the highway near a local truck stop with her hands and feet bound by rope and her throat slashed with her tongue cut out, which could be found next to the body in a circle made of dirt. The killer is still unknown."

"Case #7: Female. Leona Waters. Victim went missing after leaving Chips&Drinks tavern. Body found in dumpster with neck broken. No sign of rape. No sign of anything stolen. The killer is still unknown."

The great consulting detective was quiet for a moment before he spoke,

"How is John?"

"You know he doesn't talk to me anymore Sherlock," replied Mycroft, "not since you… Well, since you jumped."

"How about the others-does he talk to the others?" inquired Sherlock.

"As in Gregory Lestrade or Molly Hooper?" confirmed Mycroft, "John hasn't stepped foot in the police headquarters. He has seen Molly once or twice. He hasn't been going to his therapist's and he hasn't touched his cane. According to my cameras, he doesn't drink anymore like he did the year after you 'died', and he never has anyone around at the flat."

"What does he do all day?" asked Sherlock, his eyes closed as he imagined John.

_John. His warm smile. His bright, caring, trusting eyes. The touch of his calloused, yet extremely gentle hands.._

"Well?" asked Sherlock, his eyes still closed.

Mycroft hesitated, "He sits in his chair and stares at the sofa. He just sits there. He doesn't speak." After a moment of studying his brother's face, he continued, "I suppose it's better than the first year and a half when he only stared at the gun he'd have lying on the kitchen table, or when he'd fondle a rope while lying on the couch, or stroking a steak knife-"

Something torn deep inside Sherlock's chest and it only took him a second to realize it was his heart strings.

"ENOUGH," shouted Sherlock, jumping up out of his chair and slamming his hands onto the table and staring daggers into his brother's wide eyes, "that's quite enough. I've had _enough._"

"Enough of what I've said?" asked Mycroft, somewhat amused at his brother's obvious distress.

"Enough of _everything," _said Sherlock, lingering at the door leading to the hallway, "I've had enough of hiding. Enough of worrying. Enough of being so frustratingly _bored._ I'm leaving."

Mycroft stared after his brother as Sherlock stormed out of the living room and headed to his own room. Fifteen minutes later Sherlock was bounding down the stairs and passing him by.

"Sherlock, wait!" cried Mycroft but Sherlock ignored him, his thoughts set on one thing: returning to 221B.

Returning to John.

His John.

"Patrick and the rest of Moriarty's men are all dead now," said Sherlock, tying his blue scarf around his neck and placing one gloved hand on the doorknob, the door that would lead him to the outside world for the first time in three years. The door that would let him see John. The door that would give him the freedom he so desired at that very moment. He was tired of staying in the dark, surrounding himself in the shadows.

"I have no reason to be here anymore. I believe I've overstayed my visit. Goodbye Mycroft." With that last remark, he swung open the door and walked out into the London midday, ready to face whatever may come with a hope that his John would be okay.

_He'll be alright. He's alright. I'm coming John, I'm back. I'm alive._

It seemed as if the sun had never shone so bright. He didn't even look back as he made his way through the London streets that he had memorized all those years ago.

Behind him, the dark storm clouds were gathering, thunder rolling in the far distance, stalking ever closer and closer..


	3. Chapter 3: he could feel

You Thought Wrong

By: Texmex007

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's Sherlock

To simply state 'it was raining' would be grossly underestimating the situation that literally fell upon all those unfortunate or ignorant enough to have stepped out of their homes that midday. The thunder boomed so loudly, and the lightning flashed so brightly that, of those lucky ones who'd lived through it once had to take a long moment's pause to realize that no, another Blitzkrieg _was not_ happening and that they were indeed safe. Rain pelted mercilessly on the sidewalk and all those who didn't have the luxury of an umbrella.

_Why am I not catching a cab?_

Sherlock pulled the collar of his coat up around his chin as he thought about why.

_Because what am I supposed to say-"Ello John, long time no see, how about a nice cup of tea?" I suppose that sounds like the most decent thing to say after 'dying' in front of him and showing up after three years, yes, sounds oh so lovely. Absolutely brilliant._

He cursed himself for not glancing at the weather section of the newspaper he had read, for not pilfering one of Mycroft's precious umbrellas, for leaving in such a blasted hurry. He cursed the blackness manifesting itself as the inescapable clouds that were towering above him, jeering at him for his silly, impractical mistakes, but most of all, he cursed himself for his inability to conjure up the words he wanted to say.

Before he knew it, he found himself glued to the third step leading to the ebony door that he had walked through so many times before, his eyes wide and heart rate steadily climbing higher and higher than he felt comfortable experiencing.

_Only John would make me feel this wound up._

He laughed off his jittery nerves and tried swallowing the immense amount of warmth that was raging inside his chest before he knocked on the door.

_Please be Mrs. Hudson, please be Mrs. Hudson, please, please, please…_

The sight of an old woman in a worn checkered apron sent him reeling forward, taking the old woman by surprise as he hugged her tightly,

"Who is thi-Sh-sh- no it can't be," breathed Mrs. Hudson as Sherlock nuzzled his head on top of hers. He pulled her back gently and smiled,

"Oh dear God it is you," she cried, tears brimming in her eyes before throwing her arms around him, "I never imagined I'd ever see you again this soon."

"I'm back Mrs. Hudson," whispered Sherlock, "I'm back. Don't you fret now." He pulled her back gently once more, looking her deep in the eyes before asking "Where's John?"

"He's in the flat dear," she said. Sherlock made a move to go past her but she stopped him, "I'd be bloody careful if I were you," she warned, "he hasn't taken ...this, at all like you think he might've. He's not the same John as you might remember him."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in understanding and he dodged past her, bounding up the stairs two steps by two until he was at the door to the place he used to call 'home'.

_This is still my home. This is where I belong-just me and John-John and me._

He raised his hand to open the barrier between him and John, but for a split second he couldn't help but wonder if he should knock.

_If I knock, what do I say? If I simply open it what will he do? What will I do?_

Once again he felt the sensation of what society would call "butterflies" in his stomach-although these seemed like killer mutant butterflies with chainsaws and an intense bloodlust.

_Knock Knock Knock_

John scrubbed whatever blood that the rain had missed off his hands as he thought of his most recent kill,

_"Why are you doing this to me!?" screamed the man as John had reached into his backpack and taken out a ball-point hammer, stalking towards his latest victim who sat tied to a chair with his hands in duct-taped palms down on the surface of a wooden table in an abandoned warehouse by the bay._

_ "Isn't this the stance you'd have when you'd look up those illegal and nasty pictures of those poor children Harold?" asked John, reaching into his jeans pocket and retrieving a couple of nails, placing them on the table. He grinned at the man-Harold's shocked expression before he returned to his backpack and took out a box of matches and a red can of gasoline._

_ "How-how'd you know about that?" he asked, squirming in his chair as he watched John place each of the ten nails in accordance to the placement of his fingers._

_ "So you're not denying it then? Good boy Harold," said John._

_ "But how do you know," asked Harold, "I've never told anybody, I've always been careful, so how?"_

"_There isn't much that I don't know when I use a laptop," answered John smugly, "I know all about you, how you dared to abuse your little cousin when you were twenty, and how you got away with it. How he committed suicide when he was fifteen. Well," he said, leaning closer to Harold, "consider this a time for repentance."_

"_What are you going to do to me?" asked Harold weakly. _

_John's grin grew wilder._

"_What does it look like I'm going to do Harold, invite you to play tea party?" he asked quietly, mockingly. Harold shook his head,_

_ "I don't know-"_

"_I'm going to nail your worthless hands and feet to the floor," John answered before continuing excitedly, "and then, oh and then I'm going to douse you with gasoline fluid and LIGHT YOU ON FIRE! But DON'T WORRY-I'm only helping you get ready to when you go to Hell. Are you ready to go to Hell, Harold?"_

_ "No!" cried Harold, tears streaming down his face, "no please, please oh God, please no-"_

_ "RIGHT NOW THERE IS NO GOD, HAROLD," interrupted John, yelling inches away from Harold's face, "JUST YOU, ME, THESE NAILS, THIS GASOLINE FLUID, AND YOUR SINS."_

John smiled to himself, drying his hands on a nearby towel as he remembered the bone-splitting _crack_ of nails being driven into the man's fingers, the look of pure suffering of when he had finished driving each nail into its mark, the horror in Harold's eyes when John had carefully poured the sickly smelling gasoline fluid over his head and drenched his clothes, careful to avoid his own.

_The horror I felt. The suffering I felt-that I sill FEEL; It's yours now-I'm giving as much of it as I can to you Harold. Do take care of it._

_John took one of the matches out of its box and struck it, the fire leaping and dancing with life, casting a slight shadow on John's face._

"_Enjoy Hell."_

_Knock Knock Knock_

The sound of someone knocking on his door sent a shock down his spine and he fought his primal instinct to run. He took a deep breath and walked over to the door,

"Who is it?" he asked with his hand on the door, his gun in the other hand.

"It's me."

Something deep inside of John stirred at the sound of the rich, baritone voice that answered. This didn't feel like the visions he had in the beginning-he was sure of it. This time John could feel-_feel_ a searing heat streak across the cold, empty cavity of where his heart once filled, and for a second he nearly collapsed right then and there onto the floor. He shoved the gun into a drawer and swung open the door, not believing his ears and not ready to believe his eyes.

But there He was.

Sherlock. Dripping wet.

But alive.

_Dead, he's dead, blood everywhere, Oh GOD he's dead-_

"John." Said Sherlock, his eyes taking in the man who's eyes would not meet his.

When John could finally lift his eyes and look into Sherlock's,

_Oh God those eyes, they're real, they're bloody real oh God oh God this isn't possible-_

"Dear Agony." Said John, his knees weakening but his spirit keeping him up, keeping him up with whatever willpower he had left.

_I watched you fall, this isn't real, you, I-_

John flashed back to the afternoon he had stood in front of Sherlock's grave,

_ "Sherlock, please just-just do this one thing for me-just don't be dead. Don't be dead."_

That was it.

He couldn't keep his weight anymore, and in an instant he was down on his knees, slamming hard against the floor. Sherlock shimmied out of his coat and scarf, and was down with him, holding him, running his hand up and down John's back soothingly and whispering incoherently, doing anything, _anything_ to show John just how deeply and terribly sorry he was, how much he understood, how much he had missed his John.

"John, John, John," said Sherlock, holding John tightly as the Army doctor shook violently in his arms,

_Oh God it feels so nice to hear you say my name_

"I'm here for you John, I'm here right here I've got you, I'm never letting go, I promise oh God, I promise just please say something."

John stopped shaking and rose off the ground, trembling slightly as he stared into the face of the man he had lost for three years.

Three.

Bloody.

Years.

Before he knew it, his fist went flying and crashed into Sherlock's jaw, sending the consulting detective sprawling onto the floor. Before he could get up, John was sitting on top of him, pinning his hands down and screaming.

"How could you have done this to me Sherlock! HOW? HOW THE HELL COULD YOU HAVE DONE THIS TO ME!?" he demanded, "How? I spent weeks having nightmares about your death-months spent crying and feeling so damn _hollow_-years wondering what could've been" he closed his eyes, tears falling down, landing and mixing with the ones already streaming down Sherlock's impeccable cheeks,

"_Seconds and minutes_ wondering why I was even alive," whispered John, his eyes blazing, "so you owe me Sherlock, You bloody well owe me."

"You think YOU'RE the only one who suffered John?" retorted Sherlock, his chest rising and falling deeply in order to control his ragged breathing, "_I suffered too._ I was a prisoner in my brother's home- I couldn't go anywhere."

Sherlock paused, watching. When he saw John wasn't going to interrupt, he continued,

"I hid myself away to protect you from having a bullet shot through your head, John! Patrick was going to KILL you, and I couldn't let that happen! I had to pretend I was dead, I had to seclude myself and I had to stay away from you so that _you could live."_

John's wrath was quickly extinguished as he listened to Sherlock explain everything, seconds, minutes, hours, weeks, months, years…They were all melting together and draining through the cracks in his consciousness and heart. He stared at the already bruising spot where he'd punched Sherlock and he could feel the inevitable pang of guilt course through his body.

"We finally were able to kill all of Moriary's men, and then today Mycroft told me about what you used to do-staring at the gun, fondling the rope, and _God John I couldn't stay away any longer!_"

They stared into each other's eyes in silence, staring into the irises that held all the memories of them,

_Of us._

"I'm sorry," whispered John, brushing back a dark strand of hair from Sherlock's face. Sherlock raised a hand and cupped John's, his John's, face; once again feeling those mutant chainsaw wielding butterflies.

"I'm sorry too," replied Sherlock, "Oh so sorry-"

John's lips crashed against the consulting detective's and for the first time in three years he could _feel._ He could feel Sherlock's soft lips move in sync with his. He could feel Sherlock's tongue that could speak the most intriguing words and facts, now demanding and receiving entrance into his mouth. Hands intertwining with those beautiful tools that could make masterpieces with such grace and ease. Jeans feeling just a bit too tight as bodies slid against one another, breathes condensing and teeth skidding across sensitive skin. Then there were those galaxy-riddled eyes…

And that was only covering the physical aspects of feeling Sherlock.

Feeling Sherlock was like taking fire and somehow managing to extract the pain and keep the raging, lively warmth that composes it when they would lounge on the couch, bodies close and hearts beating as one, Sherlock shouting at the telly and John trying not to choke on his tea from the laughter pressing inside of his chest, trying to get out.

It was like water -fluid, graceful and ever changing and certainly never dull, the way Sherlock's mind reeled through his Mind Palace while recalling information that John didn't even think was humanly possible and the way Sherlock's fingers and hands would manipulate his violin in the evenings while he was thinking, John on his laptop and heart admiring the unspoken words of song.

Like never ending fireworks-spontaneous, erupting, breathtaking and enthralling, demanding admiration, the suppressed giggles at the crime scenes, the random times when something 'clicked' and Sherlock was grabbing John's hand, leading him out the flat in the middle of the night because _it all made sense._

Like electricity and drugs-pulsing through his veins, shaking, invigorating and stimulating John's heart and body with multiple doses of passion, wanting, and desire through Sherlock's touch during the times when the heat was all too tangible and there was no way they could fight it anymore and just _had to let it out._

Slowly, John lifted himself off and away of Sherlock, earning a slight whimper in disproval from his partner as he craned his neck, trying to continue their kiss.

"As much as I'd love to take you right here and right now," said John hoarsely, "I think I'd rather it be somewhere where no one can burst in and interrupt us."

"But Jawn," drawled Sherlock, his tongue sliding up his blogger's neck, "that's what the lock is for."

Taking the detective's remark into consideration, he locked the door, but instead of joining the love of his life on the floor, he pulled Sherlock up on his feet and led him by his belt loops towards the hallway with tender kisses where the bedroom was, slamming Sherlock down on the scarlet comforter and slowly crawling in after him.

John figured that if it was a dream, he would eventually find out in the morning. For the meantime, he was going to take whatever he could from it and _enjoy it._

And for Sherlock, that was just fine.


	4. Chapter 4: Just a dream

You Thought Wrong

By: Texmex007

A.N: Thank you all so much for your amazing reviews you have no idea how much it means to me when I am able to open my inbox and see your lovely thoughts ready to be opened with a click of a button. To all those who anonymously reviewed but I was not able to reply: Thank youx10000.

Ok, enough with the author's note, here's chapter 4

John awoke slowly in the darkness, his mind foggy and his body wonderfully sore. He surveyed the mess dominating his bedroom floor; there were clothes strewn about carelessly and the sheets rumpled in a chaotic sea of scarlet. He glanced over at his alarm clock reading 2:30 P.M in bright red LED letters.

_What happened last night? _

He spent the next couple of minutes in bed, his mind slowly returning the burning memories of the night before.

Sherlock.

His hand automatically reached over to his to his right, feeling the cold, empty spot next to him. He closed his eyes in frustration, it was too good to be true.

It was only a dream.

_A beautiful, intense dream._

He groaned.

John begrudgingly got out of bed and dressed himself, throwing on his black and white longsleeved shirt and slipping into a pair of blue jeans. It had all seemed so real; if John concentrated hard enough he could still feel soft ivory skin underneath his fingertips-

_No_

-long, adoring hands tracing down his spine, sending chills _all_ over his body-

_Stop please stop it wasn't real, it wasn't real it wasn't-_

-greedy lips and an adventurous tongue imploring for another kiss, _just one more kiss-_

_ STOP IT._

He swung open his bedroom door, ready to leave the flat, ready to leave the-all-too real dream that was taking such great pleasure in torturing his heart and mind. And then Sherlock appeared carrying a tray of coffee, flapjacks, eggs, and bacon; dressed in a buttoned down black shirt, tan slacks and an EXTREMELY frilly lilac apron.

"You weren't supposed to be up yet," said Sherlock disappointingly.

"You weren't a dream?" asked John incredulously. Before Sherlock could answer with something snarky, John reached up and kissed him, just to make sure he was real. The detective was only too happy to return the kiss.

_Yes. He's real. Alive. Mine._

"If I were a dream, then you are one _vivid _dreamer." Replied Sherlock smugly as led John down to the kitchen and set down the tray. John's ears burned red as his flatmate handed him a fork and pointed to the plate of food,

"Eat." Instructed Sherlock.

"can I eat you instead?" asked John teasingly, poking Sherlock in the stomach, "Nice apron by the way."

"You did eat me-last night," remarked Sherlock coyly as he removed the apron and hung it on a rack next to the icebox, "and thanks, it does suit me, doesn't it?"

"Very much so," replied John between mouthfuls of food. After he finished his plate, Sherlock took it away, despite John's protests.

"Shower." Said Sherlock. John didn't even try retaliating on that one.

Twenty-five minutes later John padded into the living room, hair slightly damp and a look of relief as he saw Sherlock lounging on the sofa with a newspaper in his hand.

"What's happening?" asked John as he sank into the cushiony sofa next to the detective, turning on the telly, keeping the volume on low.

"Have you been keeping up with the local crimes over the past four weeks?" inquired Sherlock without looking up at John. John tensed up ever so slightly before answering.

"Somewhat," lied John, "I know that there have been a couple of murders and I've read up to know the basics, but I'm not aware of much of the details."

"There haven't been just a 'couple' John, there've been _a whole string of them_," said Sherlock, his eyes wide in wonder and a grin spreading across his face as if he were a little boy in a toy store, "all of the murders varying in victimology, methodology, and location-but they've all got one thing in common."

"And what would that be, love?" inquired John, suppressing the urge to smile as he soaked in the excitement of his flatmate.

"The murderer is still unknown."

"Well hold on," said John raising his hand a bit before resting it on the arm of the sofa, "wasn't the first case already solved and the third was ruled out as a suicide?"

"Yes," replied Sherlock, "but that's just it-the first case's so called 'murderer' was the mistress who'd been incarcerated for over twenty four hours- so of _course_ she plead guilty!" he paused for a moment to let it sink in before continuing, "who wouldn't after being locked up in a room with no windows or doors for a day? Scotland Yard probably bashed it into her head that she _did _kill Mr. Thomas until they'd brainwashed her enough to take the murder charge!"

"That's a good point Sherlock," said John, "now what about the suicide case?"

"Ah, yes, that one" said Sherlock fondly, "I've been thinking a lot about that one. Mr. Elmo Richards. When I first looked at it, I almost thought it was indeed a suicide. But then I did some digging into his life and came up with this: John, he was engaged to a beautiful woman that'd he'd loved for eight months and he played competitive sports-football to be exact."

"What's football got anything to do with suicide?" asked John.

"Well, for one thing, it's a competitive sport," answered Sherlock, "So why would someone who competes for a living commit suicide? Competition is all about winning. Suicide is generally thought of as a way to give up-quitting, if I may call it that. So again I ask: why would a person who never gives up, never quits, commit suicide?"

"Maybe there were other things going on in his life," answered John, his eyebrows scrunched together in "deep thought". In all reality, he wasn't even thinking about the case-not really.

"Other things?" asked Sherlock incredulously, "other things _like what?"_

"I dunno," remarked John coolly, "I'm just saying we should look at all the possibilities. What if he really did commit suicide? If someone did actually kill him, then how'd they do it?"

"Now _that's_ the question I'm looking for!" answered Sherlock, poking John in the arm with a thoughtful grin, "How did someone manage to kill him, without it looking like a murder? There was no blood, no bruising, no stab or gunshot wounds, yet they managed to get him in the water alive-since there was water in his lungs-so _how_?"

John smiled.

_It's easy. I did it. Figure it out Sherlock._

"Maybe someone was able to suppress him without leaving bruises?" hinted John.

"But how would they do that with a flailing 215 pound man?" asked Sherlock, frustrated.

_Who said he had to be flailing? That would've made things so much more difficult Sherlock. Think harder._

"unless-"

"Unless?" asked John curiously, forcing back a smile. _That's it Sherlock. You've got it-I can see it in your eyes. Say it, say it..._

"Unless the killer used a sedative…" continued Sherlock thoughtfully. He jumped up and headed to the bookshelf, grabbing a chemistry book and thumbing through its pages and reading out the potential candidates,

"Arsenic,"

_Wrong._

"There were no traces of arsenic in the water." Said Sherlock before continuing his search.

"Medazolam"

_Too expensive and too time consuming to make._

"Tox screen didn't show any pill residues in the stomach."

"Chloroform."

_Ding ding ding: We have a winner!_

"Chloroform…" said Sherlock thoughtfully. He put the book back down on the shelf and hurried back over to John, picking up a case file and reading it again.

"_Of course_," smiled Sherlock, "now that _makes sense._"

"How so?" inquired John-he didn't think it'd take this long for Sherlock to catch on. Oh how he loved seeing Sherlock smile.

"The white fibers in the nose," explained Sherlock, "I thought it was a bit weird for the victim to have white fibers in his nose from drying his face or something-so I took fibers from the towel and from the nostrils to compare-and guess what? _They didn't match._ So why would he have fibers from another towel in his nose? Why would he not have put up a fight when he was drowning? _Because he was knocked out with Chloroform._"

He paused to watch John's 'shocked' surprise before continuing, "It all makes sense-granted, using a chloroform rag is so _The Collector*_, but hey, if it works it works. So the killer snuck up behind Mr. Richards, knocked him out with Chloroform; and in the process leaving white fibers from his/her rag, then tossed him into the pool while he was _still alive. _That's.. that's.."

"Horrible?" offered John.

"Absolutely _brilliant."_ Answered Sherlock with a smile. John had to fight the urge to say "thank you" as he watched Sherlock beam in admiration.

"And that's only the first and third case!" shouted Sherlock with his hands in the air.

"Do you remember the second case?" he asked after wrapping an arm around John and grabbing the second case file.

"Yes-that's the case about the girl who was strangled." Answered John.

"Correct," answered Sherlock, "now, here it gets interesting. It shows all the signs of an organized power dominant rapist-with the rope and secluded area-but there was no sign of rape. There were signs of defense wounds, and dirt under her nails, but no DNA was extracted from them. So what, did he just walk up and ask for directions, wait till she turned around and then brought out the chains? Granted, he must've been wearing gloves, the sly dog. What do you think John?"

"Why would someone do this to such a young woman?" asked John.

_Because she was a part of a Ponzi scheme, that's why. You remember when you heard that elderly couple mourn about their losses from that fake company called "Bright Retirements", and so you went and found out for yourself if it was true. It only took a laptop and a business card to find her house. It only took some patience to figure out her lifestyle and schedule that she had gained from ruining those people's lives._

_It only took a little bit of chain to end her's._

"That's a very good question John," said Sherlock, "to which I already know the answer to."

"Do you?" asked John in genuine surprise.

"Why yes," answered Sherlock, "see- apparently she was a co-founder to a huge Ponzi scheme that would steal money from elderly couples. All we have to do is find a list of all the couples she helped ruin and interrogate the relatives. That should be simple enough."

_If only it were that simple._

"John, turn up the volume." Said Sherlock, his face in extreme concentration as he looked at the news. John immediately cranked the volume up and held back a grin as he saw what was being broadcasted:

"**Yesterday a fire broke out in an abandoned store warehouse by the Thames River inlet. Firemen were able to stop the fire from spreading, but the building itself burned down. Investigators soon discovered the body of a currently unidentified man, with what appears to be nails driven into his hands and his shoes. Scotland Yard says they do not have enough evidence to charge anyone yet, but that they will be working on it. In America-"**

Sherlock muted the telly and shot a pleasantly surprised look at John, "John, let's go investigate!"

John laughed, rising off the couch and heading to the bedroom to retrieve his jacket.

_Wonder how long it's going to take for you to realize how this one was done._

*_The Collector _is a novel written by John Robert Fowles in 1963 and is a story of the abduction and imprisonment of Miranda Grey by Frederick Clegg, who used chloroform to subdue her before he kidnapped her.


	5. Chapter 5: That's cold

You Thought Wrong

By: Texmex007

**A.N: so it's been awhile... thanks for reviewing and what not.**

"This is why I don't like arsonist crime scenes," muttered Sherlock as he picked his way through the immense amount of debris and soot, "they provide either too little or too much evidence, depending on what you're looking for."

"And what exactly are we looking for?" inquired John as he watched a cargo ship leave the bay.

"Anything and everything that will lead us to the killer John, duh." Remarked the consulting detective. Just before John was about to ask if he'd really just said "_duh", _Sherlock beckoned him to his side. When he arrived, Sherlock was pointing at a distinctly charred area of the ground in which he had tied Harold,

"See this?" asked Sherlock, "this charred spot tells me that the fire originated here-where the body has been removed. This tells me that the killer doused his victim with the accelerant and burned him alive-"

"Hold up," interjected John, "how do you know the victim was burned alive? And, how do you know it was a male?" asked John.

"Really John?" said Sherlock. John quickly remembered,

"Oh that's right-size of the pelvis. Don't know how I forgot that one," John chuckled, "But Sherlock, what about being burned alive?"

"The victim was found with his head tilted back and his mouth wide open," answered Sherlock as he collected fabric samples that Anderson had missed. _Stupid Anderson…_

He paused before continuing, "Which means that he was screaming."

It should've sent chills down John's back; it should've made him feel the tiniest bit queasy-but it didn't. In fact, it only brought a faint sense of nostalgia.

"That's cold." Remarked John, more to himself than to his partner.

"Correction," smiled Sherlock, "that's _hot._"

"Oi, don't tell me you plan on leaving me for an arsonist!" joked John, playfully punching Sherlock in the arm.

"I'd never," assured Sherlock defensively, "but I'd have you know, he's not _just_ an arsonist-he is also a calculated sadist, remember? He literally _nailed the man's hands and feet in place_ so he couldn't escape. I cannot help it if his methodology intrigues me, John."

_If only you knew Sherlock, darling, if only you knew._

"So," asked John with a shrug of the shoulder, "doesn't this case feel like there's some sort of Mafia thing going on?"

Sherlock had just managed to catch a cab when his best friend's question reached his thoughts.

"What makes you think that?" inquired Sherlock as John climbed into the cab, shortly following him and closing the door.

"Where are you two needing to go?" asked the cabbie.

"Baker Street." They answered in unison. The two shared a smile before John answered,

"Well, it just seems like it. Is it possible for it to have been a gang effort?"

"Definitely not," answered Sherlock, "no-this was most undoubtedly a one man job. There was too much emotion- anger, disgust, and hatred, involved in this crime, which tells me that it was personal and possibly for revenge."

"Interesting." whispered John as he watched trees, buildings, signs, and people zoom past him in a blur, not really thinking as his eyes saw everything and nothing at once.

"How so?"

"Well," sighed John as he looked over at his flatmate, "What could this person have done to," he made a conscious effort to choose his wording carefully, "end up, like this?"

"We will soon find out once we get the DNA results." answered Sherlock with a reassuring smile, mistakenly taking in John's hesitation as a sign of empathy.

Fifteen minutes later they arrived at their flat, John heading towards the kitchen to make peanut butter and jam sandwiches while Sherlock sank into the sofa, whipping out his phone and texting Lestrade to send him the DNA report once he had it.

_Oh Lestrade, _he thought, _thank you for keeping John safe. Thank you for continually supplying me with cases. Thank you-_

His phone lit up but when he opened it he felt the sourness of receiving a message not from Lestrade, but from Mycroft.

_You left in such a hurry I wasn't able to tell you everything. After two years, John became very aware of my cameras and was able to somehow dodge them each time he went out of the flat after leaving a quarter mile radius. It seems that he went on a lot of walks- but I don't really know where he would go. –MH_

Sherlock watched as John sat down at the kitchen table with his plate of sandwiches,

"You went on walks when I was gone?" inquired Sherlock, his curiosity quipped, "Where did you go?"

John shook his head swore under his breath before he answered.

"Yes, I went on walks," spat John, "Mycroft told you didn't he? He just loves playing the role of Big Brother*, with all his little cameras waiting to watch your every movement."

_BTW: I saw that you had a rather warm reception back –MH_

"Yes…" mumbled Sherlock glaring down at the text, "he can be quite intrusive at times, the gluttonous pig."

Seconds passed and the phone lit up a third time,

_I'll have you know I can read lips- MH_

Sherlock glared out the window, where sure enough, a camera was perched upon a street light, spying in on them. John watched with a rueful smile as his flatmate made a rather rude gesture at it before heaving up off the couch and closing the curtains.

"Like I said," quipped John with a bitter smile, "Big Brother. You'd think he'd have better things to do, like do his job instead of abuse it." He sighed while he picked up his now empty plate and walked into the kitchen. Sherlock looked around the room as he heard the tap water running.

"Yes, well," mumbled Sherlock as he strode across the room, closing each and every curtain in the room in his wake, "I'll put an end to that for the time being."

John frowned as he reentered the living room, feeling his way through the darkness, "Mind turning on the lights, mate?" he called out.

The raven haired man smiled from his spot on the sofa as he watched John bump into the coffee table and repressed a chuckle as he heard the retired soldier conjure up a storm of profanity.

"Now Jawn," chided Sherlock as he felt John's weight sink into the sofa with him, "such a dirty mouth! Where on Earth did you learn those words?"

John rolled his eyes, "Shut up you sod, not all of us can be as graceful as you. Now go turn on the bloody lights."

"I like sitting in the dark-it helps me think," said Sherlock. After a moment of thought, he smiled, "I am quite graceful, aren't I?" admitted Sherlock, dramatically straitening his posture and placing an admiring hand on his own chest. John teasingly pushed his face away and towards the couch, only for the detective to bounce back.

"That's what I get for fueling the fire."

"Jawn, are you calling me a dragon?" asked Sherlock hopefully.

"A big, oversized lizard who likes to hoard junk?" said John with a grin, "then of course I am."

"Oh, shut up." Commanded Sherlock as his knee bumped John's. John mirrored the gesture,

"Try and make me." dared John, poking his partner in the arm. Sherlock stared at his partner through the darkness, leaning over John-_His John _- and slowly forced John onto his back.

"Sherlock, I was just kidding-"

"Shut up."

"Please don't hurt me" begged John half-heartedly.

Sherlock let out a low, rumbling growl and watched John's face turn red, starting with his ears, ending with his nose. With a smirk, he slowly closed the gap between them. Just before Sherlock could kiss him, his phone rang. Sherlock slowly got up and retrieved it, pressing it to his ear,

_Hate that bloody phone._

"What is it Lestrade?" demanded Sherlock a little too harshly. The voice on the other line sent a wave of anger through his conscience.

"D.I Lestrade is down at the morgue right now," said an extremely annoying voice, "This is Anderson. Boss wants you to join him down in the morgue-unfortunately not on the slab being examined."

_We were interrupted by Anderson?_

"On our way." Barked Sherlock, ignoring Anderson's sorry attempt at an insult before hanging up abruptly on the incompetent fool and turning to John.

"Well?" asked John, following Sherlock out the door with his well-worn jacket.

"I believe Lestrade's got news about the identity of the victim," Sherlock smiled as he shrugged on his coat and bounded down the steps towards the outside London air.

**A.N: Any suggestions? I'm kinda, I dunno, up for them. Thanks for the support-it means a great deal**


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